


Coming Home

by yalublyutebya



Series: Hearts At Home [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Religion, Romance, mentions of violence and torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is home, but can John forgive him for what he's done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by lady_t_220. Any remaining mistakes are mine, and the result of endless tweaking ;-)

Sundays were good days. John was always busy on Sundays, preparing for Mass, helping Lawrence get ready, and going through a routine that was ingrained into every fibre of his being. There was never time to stop and think on Sundays, and that was probably what John liked most about them. He kept himself busy the rest of the week - tending to the churchyard, tidying, helping out at the town's shelters - but there was still so much time; acres of time to be filled, minutes and hours and days to spend stuck in the memory of what was - and to hurt. Three years had passed since Sherlock's death and sometimes John still woke and was surprised to find the bed next to him empty. It was getting better though, slowly but surely. It still hurt - and maybe it always would - but life continued on, and so did John.

Tuesdays were the quietest days of John's week, in spite of his constant attempts to fill every minute, and on this particular Tuesday, John made the short trip across the Downs to Withyham. It had been a couple of weeks since his last visit, and the weeds were already starting to sprout up around the cool marble of Sherlock's headstone. John knelt down beside the grave and pulled the weeds up, tossing them to one side. When he was done, he pressed his hand against the stone and sat there for a while, just breathing slowly, lost in his own thoughts. 

"I can't believe it's been three years," John whispered eventually. "Three years... and I'd still give anything to have you back."

He let out a little laugh and shook his head, his eyes on the grass. 

"I couldn't stop thinking about you the other day. There was a story in the newspaper about a man called Sebastian Moran. The police had just caught him after years on the run... He'd done all sorts of horrible things," John paused and smiled, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's name. "I can't help thinking you would have caught him much sooner. After all, the police are idiots."

John laughed quietly, and bent his head once more, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"I miss you," he whispered. 

Suddenly, and he couldn't even really place how he knew, he could feel someone watching him. It was unnerving, but even after three years without Sherlock, John knew better than to make any sudden moves. Instead, he knelt for a little while longer, the weight of someone's gaze heavy on his back, before casually rising to his feet. He brushed his fingers over the stone once more, and then turned.

The graveyard was empty and still. John shook himself slightly, sighing at his overactive imagination. He brushed his fingers over the cold marble of Sherlock's headstone once more, and then made his way back out towards the village.

****

John returned home to find Lawrence looking anxious and upset, although trying hard to hide it with an attempt at his usual cheeriness as he greeted John.

"What is it?" John asked, thinking of all sorts of worst case scenarios. 

"My brother," Lawrence explained quietly, wringing his hands slightly.  "The chemotherapy hasn't worked as well as they hoped."

"Oh, Lawrence," John said softly, reaching out to cover his friend's hands.

"We all knew this might happen, but I..." 

Lawrence trailed off and John squeezed his hand tightly. Lawrence let out a long breath and raised his head to look at John.

"John, I hate to ask this of you... but do you think you could look after things here, if I were to go and visit George?"

"Of course I can. You know you don't even need to ask."

Lawrence gave him a weak smile. "Thank you."

John smiled back and gave his hand one last squeeze before pulling back. "I think there are still a few trains this afternoon," John said. "I can check, if you'd like."

"No, I- I'll go first thing in the morning," Lawrence said. "I'd like some time alone before I go. It... It was difficult seeing him so ill last time." 

John frowned but, before he could say anything, Lawrence swiftly changed the subject. John knew all too well that sometimes it was best just not to talk about it for a while and so got started on making them both dinner. They ate and then they talked late into the night in an obvious attempt at distraction - something they had long ago perfected on John's account - before finally retiring to bed.

Just before sleep, John sat on his bed in the dark and prayed for Lawrence's brother, for his family, for Lawrence, and finally for the miracle he continued to pray for after all this time - for Sherlock to be alive.

****

Lawrence left early in the morning, and the house soon fell quiet without him, but John didn't mind it too much - it was actually quite pleasant to have some time to himself. He spent several long hours tending to the churchyard and it was late afternoon before he stopped for some dinner. He ate a small meal alone and washed up, and then went through to shut up the church for the night.

The last of the sunlight was shining through the stained glass windows, giving the church a muted warm glow, but it was still dark enough that John didn't see the man sitting right at the front of the church until he was almost at the main door. As soon as he spotted the dark shape he stopped short, but the man gave no sign that he had noticed John's presence. John hung back, not wanting to disturb the man in his prayers, but after only a few moments, the stranger suddenly shifted, turning his head toward John. The sunlight bounced off the sharp lines of his face and the soft curls of his hair, and John's breath faltered.

The man rose in one elegant movement that was achingly familiar, and turned fully to face John. John blinked and took a halting step forward. He knew all about visions and visitations - Moses and the burning bush, Mary and the Angel Gabriel - but the vision of Sherlock Holmes was almost too much to bear. He shut his eyes and took several long breaths, but when he opened them again, Sherlock was still there. John reached out for the nearest pew to steady himself and Sherlock took a step forward, a look of concern crossing his face.

"John?" he said quietly. It was a voice that had haunted John's dreams and nightmares both. 

John was aware, in a very distant sort of way, that his head was spinning, and he let out a choked moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. A moment of darkness, and then John came round to the feel of hands - Sherlock's hands - guiding him gently to the floor. John reached out for him without even thinking, pulling him close.

"How?" he whispered, "How is this possible?"

"John," Sherlock said again, his voice thick with emotion, and John leaned forward to press his head to that hard chest, his hands gripping the soft wool of Sherlock's coat. 

"How?" John repeated helplessly, squeezing his eyes closed and breathing in the half-forgotten scent of Sherlock's skin. 

The moisture trickling down his cheeks didn't even register until Sherlock pressed his head against John's and let out a shaky breath. "John." Sherlock was trembling as he wrapped long arms around him, and John clutched him even tighter, afraid that the vision would dissipate any moment. When it didn't, some long minutes later, John sat back and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands, drinking in the sight of him.

"You're alive," John murmured wonderingly, and he watched in bewilderment as Sherlock's face crumpled and he tried to turn his face away.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," John said, confusion colouring his tone. "You're here, with me."

John's words didn't seem to do anything to soothe Sherlock, and John couldn't help but think he looked helpless and a little lost - and above all that, still so achingly young. John tugged him close again, burying his head in the bend of Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock sagged against him, hands twisting into John's shirt. 

"I thought you would hate me," Sherlock got out brokenly. "I never imagined..."

He trailed off as his grip on John tightened, and in that awful moment, John came to his senses; this wasn't a vision, or even a miracle - Sherlock had been alive all this time. 

John stiffened and Sherlock must have felt it because he pulled back, searching John's face. John released him and dragged himself to his feet, all the while watching as Sherlock's expression flicked through confusion then realisation then disappointment, before settling on a poor attempt of the blank mask John knew all too well. 

"You... You made me think..." 

John couldn't even get the words out, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. All those months, those long days of anguish, the nights when he woke with Sherlock's name in his throat - there had been no reason for any of it.

"John," Sherlock said softly, and John hated him for that softness; he wanted a Sherlock he could shout and rail at.

"I have to lock up," John said flatly, forcing himself to move away towards the door. When he pulled the heavy key out of his pocket, his hands were shaking, but somehow he managed to coordinate enough to turn the key in the lock. When the door was bolted, he sagged forward, resting his head against the wood. 

"You've locked me in," Sherlock said tightly.

John let out a disbelieving laugh and turned to face Sherlock, who was back on his feet once more. "You waltz in here after being dead for three years and you think I'm going to let you just walk out again," John said, a touch of anger colouring his voice.

Sherlock's mask faltered for just a second, before he managed to put it back up. "I don't waltz," he said quietly, his eyes on the floor. 

John let out a short bark of laughter and, for a moment, he was completely overwhelmed by the desire to kiss Sherlock, to wipe that ever so slight pout from his face, and it hit him again, even harder, that the man he had loved - and lost so horribly - was standing only ten feet away. John had to take a calming breath as he scrubbed a trembling hand across his face, before looking up to find Sherlock watching him carefully.

"I need a cup of tea," John said, and before Sherlock could answer, John started making his way back through the church towards the door which lead out to the house.

****

John blindly went through the motions of making tea, constantly over-aware of Sherlock's presence just across the room. He was so angry, and hurt, and confused, but above all of that, his traitorous heart was screaming for joy because Sherlock was alive. It was almost too much to take. 

John dropped the teaspoon on the counter and let out a huff of breath, deciding that tea really wasn't going to hit the spot right now. He opened the cupboard above his head to retrieve a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, and poured himself a generous shot. He raised it to his lips and downed it in one go, the alcohol burning its way down his throat.

"I think I should go," Sherlock said uncertainly, the first thing he had said in several long minutes. 

John put his glass down and turned to face Sherlock, really taking him in for the first time. He was thinner than John had ever seen him, and looked almost as if he was about to drop from exhaustion. 

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" he asked, not even sure where the words had come from.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, and shuffled awkwardly on the spot. "Why?"

"I want..." John started, before cutting himself off. "You can stay here. Lawrence is away. You can have his bed."

"Lawrence?" Sherlock echoed quietly, and when John looked up, it was to find Sherlock studying him. That bright gaze was still as unsettling as it had ever been and, as he watched, it was filled with the familiar light of realisation. "You're not the priest here," Sherlock finally said, half-statement, half-question.

"No. I'm a deacon."

Sherlock gave a little huff that could have meant anything, and awkward silence settled over them once more. 

John turned back to the counter, taking a sip of his tea. He felt lightheaded and dazed, as if this was some sort of surreal dream; Sherlock was back from the dead and all they could talk about was his sleeping arrangements. 

"John, I..."

Sherlock's hesitant voice brought John back round to face him. That hesitance seemed so wrong on Sherlock's face, so alien, it made him look like a stranger - and really he was, John realised. John had no idea what Sherlock had been doing for three years; where he had been, who he had spent his time with. 

Sherlock didn't finish his sentence and John moved to finish putting away the stuff he had washed just after dinner. 

"Have you eaten?" he asked, falling almost unconsciously into the usual attitude he would adopt towards anyone who turned up on his doorstep. It was so much easier to avoid the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him if he could force himself into a familiar pastoral role.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, his voice strained with obvious frustration. "John, please."

John froze at the entreaty, his shoulders stiffening with tension. 

"I know I don't have the right to ask anything of you-"

"No," John said, cutting Sherlock off, "You really don't. Do you... Do you even have any idea what I've been through?" John screwed his eyes shut and curled his hands into fists, but nothing was going to stop the deluge of words now. "You died, Sherlock. You died and for a while I didn't even know what to do, and I-" John hated the way his voice cracked when all he wanted to do was shout. "I was so lost and all I could do was pray. Every single night I prayed for you to come back to me, but I never thought... I never imagined this!"

John sank into one of the chairs, the energy completely sapped from him as he ran a tired hand over his face. When he finally raised his head, Sherlock was staring off to the side, his face a picture of misery. 

"I did it for you," Sherlock said faintly, almost so quiet that John couldn't hear him. "To keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" John got out, even Sherlock's obvious hurt not enough to soften his anger. "Moriarty was dead. Or was that all a lie too?"

"He was just one man at the heart of a whole network of people who were ready to come after me. After you. I had to stop them."

John shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. "It sounds like a great adventure. Must have been a real thrill."

"If you think that, then you really don't know me at all."

"Maybe I don't," John said tersely. "All I know is that the man I loved wouldn't have put me through the worst three years of my life."

Sherlock was staring off to the side again, but John could see him clenching his jaw, and John balled his fists even tighter, his nails digging into his palms. Seeing Sherlock so miserable made him ache in ways that didn't seem particularly fair, but he wanted it at the same time - wanted Sherlock to feel some of the anguish that had tortured him for three long years.

"It's getting late, and I'm tired," John finally said, when he was unable to bear the sight of Sherlock any longer. He was so strung-out he knew he wouldn't sleep, but he needed some time alone. Sherlock went as if to speak, but John cut him off before he could. "Stay here tonight. Please. Maybe... Maybe in the morning we can talk."

Sherlock gave him a long look but said nothing, finally dropping his chin just a fraction to show his acquiescence. John let out another sigh and led him up the stairs to the bedrooms.

****

John lay staring at the ceiling. It had been at least an hour, maybe even two, since he had left Sherlock in Lawrence's room with a strained 'goodnight'. He'd spent a good twenty minutes of the first hour sobbing quietly into his pillow, his chest tight with emotion, his heart aching so badly it felt like it might split. 

It was useless to even consider trying to sleep - not when Sherlock, Sherlock, was in the room next door. There had been no noise from him since John had left, but that could mean anything when it came to Sherlock. John's chest tightened again as he was hit by the force of a hundred memories of their life together and he fisted his hands in the bedclothes, letting out long, slow breaths through his teeth. 

A sudden low noise from next door made him freeze. He pushed himself up to his elbows and listened intently, but the only thing he could hear was the faint ticking of the clock on his bedside table. Without even thinking, John climbed out of bed and slipped silently out of his room and along the corridor.

The door to the other bedroom stood slightly ajar - just as John had left it - and he inched forward to take a look. Sherlock was sleeping half on top and half under the blankets, still in his trousers and shirt. Sherlock's brow was creased into a frown and, as John looked on, he stirred and let out a low, almost pained, moan. 

John couldn't bring himself to leave, couldn't even bear to look away from a sight he hadn't seen in years. Sherlock had always looked so vulnerable in sleep, so much younger than he did when awake, and it was always something John had counted as a privilege to see.

Sherlock shifted again, letting out a choked noise as his hands clenched around the blanket, his whole body tensing. John watched on helplessly as his tossing and turning got progressively more violent, not quite certain what to do. 

"No," Sherlock got out, his arm coming up to cover his face and John had taken a step forward before he even realised it.

"Sherlock," he called softly, even though he knew it would not be enough to wake the younger man from his nightmare. 

Sherlock let out another pained noise that twisted in John's gut, and John forced himself forward, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's arm.

Before John could even register what had happened, he was on the floor, winded, with Sherlock pinning him down, one arm pressed against his throat. It took only a few seconds for Sherlock to blink himself to full wakefulness and, as soon as he became aware of what had happened, he scrambled away from John, curling in on himself as John pushed himself up.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said in a rough voice, the sound muffled by the hand half-covering his face. He had his head turned away and, even when John reached out to grip his arm, he kept his eyes resolutely on the far wall. His left hand - the one covering part of his face - was visibly trembling now, and he clenched it into a tight fist as a choked sob was torn from his throat.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

Even as John spoke, the first tears spilled over and Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes futilely, even as more tears followed. John had not seen Sherlock cry - not like this - in seventeen years, and it shattered his restraint. He closed the small gap between them and enveloped Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock tensed, but after a few seconds, he turned into John's embrace, burying his head against John's shoulder. 

John held Sherlock as tightly as he could, pressing his face against Sherlock's hair and taking long, slow breaths as Sherlock broke down in his arms. John did not whisper words of reassurance - did not tell Sherlock that everything would be okay - because he wasn't sure that it could be, and John did not tell Sherlock that he had missed him and that he was glad he was alive, because there were too many other negative feelings filling him up. John simply held him until he finally calmed down enough to extract himself awkwardly from John's embrace and avert his gaze as John retreated, alone, to his own room.


	2. Chapter 2

 

When John finally made his way downstairs the next morning - after delaying as long as possible - he found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with his phone. He had his coat and shoes on and looked about ready to bolt.

"Morning," John said awkwardly, going to the sink to fill up the kettle.

"Morning," Sherlock answered, putting his mobile down and looking up at John. 

John turned away and made the tea in silence, Sherlock's gaze burning a hole in the back of his head. When John finally turned back, Sherlock's expression was deliberately blank, although he raised one eyebrow when John placed a cup of tea in front of him and sat down opposite with his own. 

John watched as Sherlock took a few polite sips of his tea, but then he seemed to grow frustrated and he put the cup down, shifting awkwardly in his chair before finally meeting John's gaze.

"I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry. It was wrong of me."

"Yes, I was so much happier when I thought you were dead," John said with biting sarcasm.

"You don't look very happy now."

John sighed and put his cup down, clasping his hands together and staring at them.

"Sherlock, I..." he trailed off and when he glanced up he found Sherlock watching him intently. "I'm not... unhappy... that you're alive. God knows I've wanted it to be true for long enough, but-"

"But you're unhappy that you didn't know. That you suffered for three years. That you think I wanted this, that I didn't think about you."

John couldn't look away from those bright blue eyes and a gaze that seemed even more piercing than he remembered. Sherlock broke the moment first, looking to the side and swallowing hard.

"You're wrong," Sherlock whispered. "You're wrong if you think I didn't spend every single moment thinking about you, trying to work out how I could get back to you more quickly."

John let out a harsh breath and ran his hand over his face. He wasn't sure he was well-rested enough for this conversation, but Sherlock was talking and John recognised it for the gift - the olive branch - that it was.

"Where have you been, Sherlock?" John asked tightly.

Sherlock inspected the tabletop, resolutely not looking at John as he answered. "All over. Europe, America, Asia. Wherever the next lead took me."

"What have you been doing?" John asked, desperate for more details - for some proof that he hadn't suffered in vain.

"Destroying every single trace of Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said in a low voice.

John shifted in his chair and averted his gaze, his voice coming out strained when he finally spoke up. "And you couldn't do that with me?"

He could almost feel the intensity of Sherlock's stare, hot against the side of his face, tension rising until the sharp trill of the telephone suddenly cut through the silence. John rose quickly to his feet and crossed the room to answer it.

"Hello?"

"John. Hello," Lawrence said.

"Lawrence," John got out, rubbing his forehead. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," Lawrence replied somewhat uncertainly. "I... I'm glad I came."

"Good," John breathed.

"The thing is," Lawrence started, "I think I might be staying longer than planned. If it's not a problem for you?"

"Of course not," John said.

"I hope you haven't been too busy."

"No," John said after a small pause, his gaze drifting to Sherlock. "No, not really."

"Okay... You're sure?"

John smiled softly. "I'm sure. You should take as long as you need."

"Thank you, John. I'll try my best to be back for Mass on Sunday."

"Don't rush on my account, please," John said, all too aware of the unspoken acknowledgement that this might be the last time Lawrence saw his brother.

"Okay," Lawrence said, and John thought he could hear a smile in Lawrence's voice. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome. I'll speak to you soon."

John hung up and stood there for a few seconds, trying to regain some of his composure before facing Sherlock again.

"Sick relative?" Sherlock asked and John let out a huff of amazement; some things never changed.

"His brother," John explained. "Cancer."

Sherlock said nothing and went back to fiddling with his phone. After just a moment, he let out a huff of breath and spoke up again.

"I should go."

"You don't-"

"You obviously need time, and I... There are people I still have to see."

The anger-tinged sadness that had welled up in response to Sherlock's first sentence soon disappeared in the face of the second. "You haven't seen anyone else?" John asked. "No-one else knows?"

"There was only one person I wanted to see when I knew it was finally safe to do so," Sherlock answered quietly, his eyes on the blank screen of his phone.

"Sherlock," John got out, his heart aching.

"I'm sure Lestrade will have a few choice words to say," Sherlock mused in a poor attempt at lightheartedness. "Mrs. Hudson perhaps even more so."

John couldn't help but smile, and when Sherlock looked up, he gave a halfhearted grin in return. For a moment they just looked at each other, until John turned away awkwardly, forcing his expression into blankness. "Don't give her too much of a shock, alright?"

Sherlock gave a faint nod. 

"I suppose you'll have to go and see Mycroft too," John said lightly.

Anyone else might have missed the slight wince and the tightening across Sherlock's shoulders but, even after all this time, John appeared to be an expert in reading Sherlock's body language. That reaction could only mean one thing - guilt - and John felt his stomach drop. His hands clenched helplessly. 

"No, John choked out in realisation. "He knew?"

Sherlock said nothing and John glared at him, anger sweeping through his body. "He knew you were alive, didn't he?" he snapped.

Sherlock finally met John's gaze and the guilty, helpless look in his eyes made John feel so sick he had to brace himself on the worktop, shaking his head in disbelief. "Your brother knew all this time. You... You hated him, and yet you still trusted him with your secret."

"John-"

"I think you'd better go," John said, not even looking up from the floor, because he knew if he did his anger would get the better of him. After several long moments, Sherlock moved and John listened as he rose from his chair, pushed it back under the table, and made his way to the kitchen door.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said softly and John closed his eyes to hold back the wave of emotion those words prompted. The door creaked as it was opened, and then clicked back into place as Sherlock pulled it closed behind him, leaving John to sag exhaustedly against the side.

****

It took less than half an hour for John to regret his actions. He was still furious and upset and almost sick with shock, but the last thing he wanted was Sherlock gone from his life again. He had prayed too long and hard, and suffered for far too many months, to let a couple of fraught conversations be the sum of their reunion, or the end of their story. There was still so much more to be said, to be asked - three years that needed filling - and John was angry at himself for being too overwhelmed by his emotions to realise it. 

Unfortunately, John didn't know where Sherlock was headed first, didn't have any way of contacting him, and when he realised his only option would be to contact Mycroft, he very almost threw his cup of tea across the room. It took several long moments to calm himself, and once he had placed his mug safely down on the worktop, he made his way out of the house to get some air to clear his head. 

John rounded the corner and came to a halt when he spotted a figure sitting on the graveyard's only bench, looking completely at home, his umbrella propped up beside him. John had to take several deep breaths before he could even begin to make his way over to Mycroft Holmes, but finally he moved, taking slow measured steps towards the other man.

"Good morning, John," Mycroft said with a hint of a smile as soon as John was close enough.

 

John almost choked as words tripped over themselves in his throat, fury making him let out an incoherent noise before he could speak properly.

"You... How dare you just turn up here as if... as if it's nothing. As if you didn't stand there and tell me your brother was dead," John bit out.

Mycroft looked frustratingly unsurprised and unaffected by John's anger. "I did only as requested, John."

"You-" John clenched his fists. "You said right to my face that he was too badly injured, that I shouldn't see the body because it would be too upsetting."

Mycroft said nothing, regarding John with a maddeningly level gaze.

"Then you organised a funeral and you- you gave a bloody eulogy, and all along..." John broke off helplessly, his throat tight with emotion.

"I am sorry, John."

"No, you're not," John said angrily. "You're not sorry because you're a Holmes and somewhere in that big Holmesian brain, it tells you that logic is better than emotion, that people are idiots and that you know best, and that sentiment is ridiculous!"

John's last words seemed to ring out across the graveyard, but Mycroft just continued to give him that bland look, his head tilted to the side.

"You know my brother better than that, John," Mycroft said. "There may have been a time, some years ago, when he thought that - or at least he wanted to. But that changed, and we both know why."

Mycroft paused momentarily, the lines of his face softening almost imperceptibly.

"Sherlock cares for you, more than he has ever cared for anyone or anything. I do not make him out to be a hero in this tale, but if you understood-"

"Help me understand then," John interrupted desperately. "Tell me just what drives a man to fake his own death. To lie to everyone he knows."

"It's not my place to explain," Mycroft said after a short pause.

"Then why are you here?" John snapped.

Mycroft regarded him for a moment and then spoke up.

"Because I want my brother to be able to live his life again."

"Well maybe you shouldn't have done such a convincing job of making him dead," John got out coldly and turned away. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"John," Mycroft called out. John stopped, but didn't turn, his back rigid with fury.

After several moments, Mycroft eventually spoke up: "I thought you might like to know that my brother is staying at our family home, if you need to find him."

John nodded once in understanding, and set off back towards the house. 

****

Mycroft's appearance had succeeded in riling John up to such an extent that he almost forgot he had promised to visit one of the older parishioners that morning. He made his way across town with a heavy heart and a vague trembling throughout his body, his mind in complete turmoil. He sat through tea and biscuits with Mrs. Leighton and tried his best not to be too distracted, but as he left, she wished him well with a knowing look and he gave her a tiny smile before leaving to return home again.

John made the mistake of choosing to return to the house via the church, only to be struck by the memory of Sherlock's appearance the night before. John stopped short in the middle of the aisle and found himself sinking bonelessly into the nearest pew, his hand going instinctively to the rosary in his pocket.

He pulled the beads out and clasped them tightly between his hands as he bowed his head and prayed somewhat desperately for guidance. He felt like he was being pulled apart from the inside - half of him so angry he could hardly function, and the other half still painfully aware that he was incredibly lucky - lucky where others would never be - to have Sherlock back. 

It was pointless to think he could go on like this - he had to see Sherlock again; he needed closure, if nothing else, and answers to the questions that plagued him. He had a relatively free afternoon, but there was no point making the trip to Withyham if Sherlock was still in London. The only way to check would be to phone the house, and after a quick check with Directory Enquiries, John had the number scribbled on a piece of paper which he held in one hand as he stared at the phone, his determination - and courage - suddenly gone. 

It took a few minutes, but he finally lifted up the receiver and dialled the number with a slightly shaking hand. A pause, and then it was ringing. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as it rang again, and again, and again.

"Come on," he muttered to himself, and just at that moment the ringing stopped and a voice came down the line.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, that alien timidity still colouring his voice.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, and he heard Sherlock let out a shaky breath, the noise crackling through the receiver.

There was a long pause where neither of them said anything, until John eventually forced himself to speak, floundering for the first words that came to mind.

"I saw Mycroft." It wasn't what he had intended to say, but it broke the moment of awkward silence as Sherlock answered with a sharp 'What? Where?'.

"He came to the church."

Sherlock growled his displeasure but said nothing, and silence fell between them once more. John swallowed once, twice, then cleared his throat.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock eventually asked softly.

"I want to see you again."

"I got the impression you wanted the exact opposite."

"I'm sorry," John said, before realising what he had said and shaking his head. "No, no I'm not sorry. You lied to me and it hurt and I think I'm probably perfectly justified... But I am sorry I sent you away."

Sherlock remained silent and John let out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. "Are you free?"

"Yes."

"Can I-"

"Yes."

"I didn't even finish my sentence."

"It doesn't matter. Whatever you want, anything, yes."

John squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long breath through his nose, overwhelmed by the desperate note in Sherlock's voice. "I'll be there in an hour."

He hung up and scrubbed a hand over his face. Every conversation with Sherlock felt like an attack on his nerves, leaving him weak and a little dizzy, but he wasn't going to back away from this. He needed to understand, and there was only one man who could help him.

****

The Holmes' residence hadn't changed much over the years. The facade was much the same as it had been seventeen years ago and the interior was largely unchanged as well, but it was far from being neutral ground. The last time John had set foot in this house, it had been the day of Sherlock's funeral and he had watched blankly from the sidelines as Mycroft had entertained a multitude of strangers, looking for all the world as if it were any old party and not his brother's wake. Looking back, perhaps the signs should have been obvious.

A middle-aged woman - a housekeeper of sorts by the look of it - let him in and waved him in the direction of the study, before disappearing upstairs. As John made his way down the familiar hallway, he couldn't help but think of the first time he had been here - the first time he had met Sherlock. The study door was open and John entered to find Sherlock curled up in the window seat, staring out at the sky with his violin clutched against his chest and, just for a minute, it was as if he was looking at that fifteen-year-old boy again. Sherlock turned to face him and the vision dissipated, leaving behind a man who looked as if he was facing his executioner. 

As Sherlock turned fully towards him, John spotted the darkening mark on his jaw. Sherlock saw the direction of his gaze instantly and frowned.

"Lestrade had a few things to say then?" John asked.

"On your behalf, apparently."

"On my behalf?" John echoed in surprise.

"He said he didn't think you'd be up for the job, but that someone needed to do it," Sherlock said tightly.

John gave a weak smile, and awkward silence fell over them again. Sherlock rose to his feet and placed the violin back in its case, before turning back to look out of the window again. 

"Well, here you are," Sherlock said quietly. "I know I don't deserve your attention so I assume you have questions."

"There are things I need to know," John admitted. "I need to understand why you did what you did before I can even begin to think about what happens next."

Sherlock turned to him, looking a little baffled. "I've told you."

"You've hardly told me anything. You say you did it to keep me safe, and to destroy Moriarty's network. What does that mean?"

"Don't be tedious, John," Sherlock said with just a hint of defensive petulance.

"No, you don't get to play that card with me," John got out angrily. "You owe me." 

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock returned, flinging his hands up in exasperation. "It's done, it's finished."

"So why won't you tell me? What could be so horrible that you can't tell me?"

Sherlock's expression darkened and he turned away again, clenching his left hand into a tight fist. "John-"

"No," John interrupted, crossing the space between them and grabbing Sherlock by the arm, tempted to shake some sense into him. "Look at me. I deserve to know, after everything you put me through."

Sherlock closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and John was surprised to feel his arm trembling under John's hand. John pulled away and frowned at Sherlock's quivering fingers just as Sherlock's eyes flew open and he snatched his hand back, balling it into a fist once more.

"It's nothing," Sherlock said, too quickly.

"What happened to you?" John asked softly. 

"I can't tell you," Sherlock said miserably, his face turned away.

"Why not?"

"Because it's still possible for you to think even less of me than you already do."

John let out a stuttered breath and reached out for Sherlock again, pressing the still-trembling hand between his palms. Sherlock looked down at him miserably, the bruise on his jaw even darker this close.

"You can tell me anything," John murmured. "Anything at all. You know that. Just, please, tell me something. You were gone for three years, Sherlock. Three years. I need something."

Sherlock swallowed hard, his hand flexing between John's.

"I don't know what's going to happen," John said quietly. "I can't make promises. I don't know where we'll be in a week, a month, a year. But I only just got you back and I'm not ready to let you go again. Okay?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, and then nodded, his eyes falling closed. 

"So you'll talk to me?" John pushed. "You'll tell me where you've been?"

Sherlock's voice seemed to stall in his lungs before he let out a slow, tremulous sigh. "Yes. Yes, alright."

John let out the breath he had been holding and finally released Sherlock's hand. It felt like he was finally getting somewhere. Now he just had to prepare himself for whatever Sherlock could bear to tell him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock hadn't said a word in ten minutes. John didn't think he was going to change his mind, but he seemed reluctant to start. John shifted somewhat noisily in his chair, not for the first time, but Sherlock didn't move from his position at the window.

"Sherlock," John called.

"I know," Sherlock snapped in frustration before John could even say anything more, turning to throw himself into the nearest chair. 

"Maybe... you could tell me what happened to your hand?" John asked quietly. It seemed as good a place to start as any; Sherlock had been flexing and clenching it compulsively since John had let go, although it seemed to have stopped trembling.

"I have an intermittent tremor," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Partly as a result of nerve damage."

"And the other part?" John prompted.

Sherlock grimaced. "Some sort of... psychological issue. Mycroft wants me to see a therapist. He thinks I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"Do you?" John asked bluntly. It was something he'd encountered many years ago when he was in the Army, but he couldn't remember much about the symptoms.

Sherlock looked up at him with bright eyes. "Possibly."

"You don't think seeing a therapist might help?" John asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Sitting around telling some stranger all the awful things I've done... It's uncomfortably reminiscent of Confession."

"I'm guessing you haven't tried that then," John commented.

"I don't expect to find forgiveness for the things I've done," Sherlock said quietly, a haunted expression on his face.

"Everyone has a right to forgiveness."

Sherlock swallowed hard, a pained expression on his face. "You don't understand, John. There are things I've done that-"

"Have you killed people?"

Sherlock's eyes flew to John's and he held John's gaze for several long moments before nodding.

It didn't exactly come as a surprise, but John still had to take a few breaths before he could speak up again.

"Well then..." His voice was strained and he paused to clear his throat. "If you feel sorry-"

"I don't," Sherlock said sharply. "I can't. If I hadn't killed them, they would have killed me."

"But you feel some sort of... remorse?" John asked quietly.

"What's the point of feeling remorse for something that was unavoidable?"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a shaky breath. He should have remembered that talk of morals and ethics had always been tricky when it came to Sherlock and that big logical brain of his.

"You see," Sherlock said lowly, and when John looked up, he was staring at the far wall. "I don't think even you could find the good in what I've done."

"I...I don't want to believe that," John murmured, and Sherlock turned to fix him with a heartbreakingly uncertain look. "I... I'm sure if I knew the circumstances..."

"But why? Why do you need to know?" Sherlock asked a little desperately.

"Because I need to know that there was a point to all of it, Sherlock," John said tiredly. "I need to know that I didn't go through three years of hell for nothing."

Sherlock frowned, his gaze fixed on the floor. "It was hell for me too," he said after a long pause.

Silence fell over them again as John watched Sherlock's bent head, wishing he could just get inside it. Talking had never been Sherlock's strong point, and finding out exactly what had happened in the last three years could be a long process. John was committed though, for the sake of their relationship - whatever form that might now take.

****

The housekeeper, somewhat miraculously, interrupted them with tea, and if he were anywhere other than the home of Mycroft Holmes, John might have thought it a happy coincidence. He found himself instead growing uneasy at the thought of Mycroft observing this very personal meeting, and started looking surreptitiously around the room for cameras.

"There aren't any cameras in here," Sherlock said in a familiar illusion of telepathy. "I chose this room for that precise reason."

John decided not to comment on Mycroft's obsessive need to see everything, even in his own home, and returned to his tea, sipping at it slowly whilst watching Sherlock from under his eyelashes. Sherlock was standing by the window, his tea ignored in favour of clutching his violin to his chest again, like a security blanket. 

"That expectant look of yours is still rather unnerving," Sherlock commented without turning around, making John jump slightly guiltily. Sherlock turned to face him, regarding him with an anxious look. "I'm trying, John."

"I know," John said with a sigh, putting his cup down. "And I don't expect to hear it all tonight. I just... Tell me something. Anything. What happened with Moriarty?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers ghosting over the strings of his violin, and then opened them again.

"He threatened you. Threatened to get you put in prison for a very long time."

"It wouldn't have got that far. Richard Brook would probably still have confessed."

"He only confessed because he hadn't heard from Moriarty as planned. He knew something had gone wrong."

"Moriarty was dead," John guessed.

"Yes."

"How?"

"A seventy foot drop will do that to you, in most cases."

John swallowed, forcing away images of Sherlock falling, of his broken body on the pavement. "You survived," he croaked. "How?"

"I don't know. I was lucky, I suppose," Sherlock said, before giving a twisted smile. "If you can call a cracked skull, shattered collarbone and several broken ribs lucky. Not to mention the two gunshot wounds."

John inhaled sharply, the thought of Sherlock's injuries like a blow to the chest.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmured. "Too much."

John shook his head, holding Sherlock's gaze. "I want to know all of it," he choked out. "You were shot?"

"Yes. Stupid, really. I should have realised Moriarty was prepared for every eventuality."

John let out a burst of surprised, strained laughter. Only Sherlock Holmes would blame himself for getting shot. "How... How did you fall?" John asked a moment later.

"I was... wrestling with Moriarty, for want of a better word. We both went over the edge. He was killed instantly."

John let out a long, slow breath, his hands clasped tightly together. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry he's dead."

"No," Sherlock agreed quietly. 

A moment of silence passed and Sherlock wandered back to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. 

"So," Sherlock eventually said in a soft voice. "What happens now?" 

"I should be getting back," John said uncertainly.

"Do you have to?" Sherlock asked, glancing at him.

"It's getting late. The bus can be a bit unreliable in the evening."

"I'll drive you back," Sherlock said quickly, but then frowned as if regretting his words. "You don't have to stay, of course, if you need to leave..."

There was something achingly vulnerable in Sherlock's tone and John couldn't help but react to it. "No, it's fine. I can stay a while longer." 

Sherlock regarded him for a moment in silence, then turned away again. He cleared his throat, his fingers flexing around the neck of his violin. "Would you tell me about your decision to rejoin the Church?"

"Nothing surprising in it, really," John said, watching the lines of Sherlock's back. "It used to be my home and after... I needed a purpose again."

"You didn't choose to be a priest again though," Sherlock commented. "Why not?"

"The reasons I left the priesthood were still valid. Are still valid. I wanted to be part of the Church again, but I wasn't going to pretend that a year of my life was a mistake."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and sat down in the chair opposite John once more, the violin still pressed to his chest. His gaze seemed distant as he absently plucked the strings. "I prayed, you know. When I was... away. I don't think I've ever prayed so much in my life."

"Did it help?" John asked.

"It made me feel less alone."

"I'm glad."

"You may be surprised to hear that I even went to a service," Sherlock remarked with a hint of a smile. "In Armenia."

"Armenia?"John echoed. "What were you doing in Armenia?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, but then seemed to push past his reticence. "Hiding out. And recovering from the pneumonia I'd caught in Russia."

John raised his eyebrows but decided not to push any further. "And you somehow ended up at a church service?" he asked with a disbelieving smile.

"It was Christmas," Sherlock explained, his lips just curving into a smile. "It felt appropriate."

John laughed. "Since when have you ever done what's appropriate?"

Sherlock's smile grew wider and John couldn't help smiling back, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. 

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked casually, his eyes the only thing to give away his wariness.

"Yeah, okay," John agreed. "I'm starving actually."

Sherlock gave him a soft smile and rose to his feet. "I'll go tell Mrs. Jamieson."

John nodded and watched him go, for the first time feeling like there might be a way forward, a way for them to rebuild at least some of what they had once had.

****

Dinner was passed in quiet conversation and it seemed like any of a hundred other times they had eaten dinner together. There was a constant tension simmering below the surface, but they both seemed happy enough to ignore it for a little while. It was nice, just for an hour or so, to enjoy the fact that Sherlock was back, without focusing on all the complicated ins and outs of his deception.

"I really should be getting back," John said once dinner had been cleared away and his wine glass was empty. "I've got a busy morning tomorrow."

"Yes, you said. At the school."

"Yeah."

"You must be quite busy with Lawrence away."

"Not overly," John said with a shrug. "And I really don't mind."

Sherlock gave him a slight smile and rose to his feet. "We'd best get going then."

"I can get a taxi, it's no problem," John protested.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock countered. "If you like, you can regard it as me making a donation to the church."

John smiled and followed him out of the room. They made their way out to the garage and John settled in the car next to Sherlock. 

"I didn't even know you could drive," John pointed out. "How did I not know that?"

"It's hardly necessary in London."

"I suppose so."

Sherlock smiled and started the car, before pulling out of the garage and setting out into the darkness.

They spent the journey in silence, John wrapped up in his thoughts. Before he knew it, they had reached the church and Sherlock pulled up at the kerb. John glanced at Sherlock, but he was staring out at the night sky, his hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel.

"I'll, err, I'll be a bit busy the next few days," John spoke up.

"Of course."

"After the weekend though..."

"You don't need to make any promises, John. I know this is hard for you. And I'm sure there are a million places you would rather be."

"Not really," John said quietly. "I told you earlier, I'm not going to let you go when I've only just got you back."

He watched as Sherlock let out a shaky breath, his fingers tensing around the wheel.

"John," he started uncertainly, his gaze still fixed outside. "I... I know I shouldn't say this, it's completely selfish and perhaps slightly ridiculous of me... But I need you to know now that... that I am still in love with you."

Sherlock still wouldn't look at him and John let out a huff of breath, running a hand over his face. 

"You are the only thing that has kept me going for the past three years," Sherlock continued in a rough voice. "And I... I know you must despise me-"

"I don't despise you," John cut in deliberately, desperate to stop the torrent of words he was in no way prepared to deal with yet. 

Sherlock's only acknowledgment was to finally release his grip on the wheel, sinking back into the seat and tilting his head towards the ceiling.

"You may not despise me," Sherlock murmured, "But do you think there is any chance you might...love me again?"

John didn't think he had ever heard Sherlock sound so lost and he had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat, staring sightlessly out into the darkness.

"I never stopped," he said eventually, and listened as Sherlock's breath stuttered, before evening out.

"But that's not the problem," Sherlock suggested, a note of resignation in his voice.

"No."

Sherlock gave a huff of quiet laughter and they fell silent for several long moments, until John finally forced himself to move and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

John spared a glance at Sherlock, who was still resolutely staring at the ceiling, and got out of the car. He walked the short distance to the house without looking back and, as he turned the key in the lock, he listened as the car moved away and disappeared out of earshot. He let himself in and shut the door behind him, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh, his head buried in his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday and Saturday passed mostly in a blur of activity, leaving John very little time to think about Sherlock. When he finally sank into a chair at the kitchen table on Saturday evening, he let out a sigh of satisfaction - only to let out a groan a moment later when the phone rang. He dragged himself to his feet and went to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"John, hello. It's Lawrence."

"Lawrence, hi," John said, not sure if he was pleased or relieved it wasn't Sherlock. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine."

"And George?"

Lawrence let out a little sigh. "He's deteriorating much more quickly than anyone expected."

"Oh, Lawrence, I'm so sorry."

"I don't think it will be long now," Lawrence continued in a strained voice. "But I'm almost glad. He's in a lot of pain."

"Horrible," John muttered, almost to himself.

"I'm not going to make it back for tomorrow."

"It's fine, really. I've already spoken to Father Benjamin over in Withyham and he's happy to help out."

"I'm sorry to be causing you so much trouble."

"It's no trouble," John assured him.

"I hope you haven't had too much going on at least?"

John hesitated for just a moment, and Lawrence seemed to pick up on it. "John?"

For the space of just a few seconds, John considered not telling Lawrence. It seemed somehow wrong, that Sherlock was alive and well when Lawrence's brother was dying, but in the end he knew he wouldn't be able to keep the news from his friend.

"I, err, I had an unexpected visitor the other day," John said.

"Who was it?"

"Sherlock."

"Excuse me?" Lawrence got out in a bewildered tone.

"Sherlock's alive."

"I... How?" 

"It was all a lie. He faked his own death."

"Why- Why would he do that?" Lawrence asked.

"You're asking the wrong man," John said with a sigh. "I'm still trying to get my head around it."

"I... This is..." Lawrence trailed off and John let out a huff of laughter.

"Yeah."

"How are you coping?"

John laughed again. "Not very well."

"You must be happy to have him back though."

"I- Yeah. I am. Of course I am. I just..." 

"What?" Lawrence prompted softly.

"I'm angry too. You know what the last three years have been like for me. Knowing that it was all for nothing makes me furious."

"He has a good reason, I assume."

"Of course he does, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes!" John exclaimed.

"So... what are you going to do?" Lawrence asked after a beat.

"I wish I knew," John sighed. "I almost can't bear to let him out of my sight, but at the same time I sometimes can't stand to be in the same room as him."

Lawrence hummed in acknowledgement. "I imagine he's having a difficult time too. Coming back to life, as it were."

"I... Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but yes, I suppose so. I think he's been alone quite a lot... It's like he doesn't know how to be around other people anymore," John said quietly, thinking of that unfamiliar reticence, and then smiled. "Not that he was ever very good with people."

There was a moment of silence, until Lawrence eventually spoke up again.

"I honestly don't know what to say to you."

"No," John said with a laugh. "This isn't exactly an everyday sort of problem."

"No," Lawrence agreed. "But I know you'll work it out."

"God, I hope so."

"Well, aren't we a pair," Lawrence said after a short pause. "I don't want to cut you short but I have to get back to George. We'll talk again soon?"

"Yeah, of course."

John hung up, feeling a little better for having finally been able to talk to someone who wasn't a Holmes, someone who appreciated how bizarre the whole situation was. He still didn't know what was going to happen, but Lawrence's faith that he would find a way through this mess was heartening. 

****

It had been a while since John had had to lead a service, but it seemed to come as naturally as it always had. The Communion Service was much the same as Mass, only minus a priest, and John moved easily through the familiar routine of it. He was in the middle of his homily when he happened to look out across the congregation and spot a familiar, dark-haired figure towards the back. For a moment, his mind went blank and he paused awkwardly mid-sentence. A moment later, the words came back to him and he cleared his throat and continued, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock. 

Somehow, he made it through the rest of the service without looking at Sherlock and made his way to the back once he was done to bid farewell to the congregation. There were a number of expressions of concern at Lawrence's absence, and reassurance from John, and the usual remarks on the service, as well as more general chatter with those he knew a little better.

One middle-aged couple paused to speak to him and he greeted them warmly.

"Lisa, Chris, hello."

"John," Chris returned with a smile, shaking his hand warmly. 

"Lovely homily," Lisa said, taking John's hand and leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. 

"Thanks."

"You're still coming for lunch, yes?" Lisa asked as she pulled back, looping her arm through her husband's.

John had actually forgotten their arrangement with everything that had been going on, but he nodded and smiled anyway. "Of course, yes. I'm looking forward to a properly cooked meal," he joked. "Lawrence and I are both mostly hopeless when it comes to cooking."

"How's his brother?" Chris asked with a frown of concern.

"Not very well," John said.

"Such an awful shame," Lisa said quietly and John nodded absently. "Anyway, we'll let you get on."

John glanced over to see several people still waiting to say goodbye to him. "Yes. I'll see you in a little while."

"Great," Lisa said. "See you then."

Chris, always the quieter of the two, nodded his goodbye and the couple moved away, heading towards their house, which stood just opposite the church. John turned to the next person waiting for him with a warm smile. "Mrs. Skelton, hello. How are you?"

The crowd finally dissipated, leaving a lone figure lingering by the door. Sherlock stepped forward slowly, hands in his pockets, looking slightly guilty.

"John."

"Hello. Are you feeling alright?" John said teasingly. "Two services in three years."

Sherlock smiled faintly, but it disappeared again quickly. "I shouldn't have come."

"I'm never going to stop you coming to church," John said. "Although, you could have gone to the church in Withyham..."

"I only have so much patience. I thought it might be more bearable if it was you."

"And was it?"

"Just about," Sherlock said after a pause, smiling. 

John grinned, looking around the graveyard before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"I thought you might be back in London by now."

"No," Sherlock said, and then after a pause: "I don't think I'm going back."

John couldn't help remembering Lawrence's words about the difficulty Sherlock might face readjusting to his old life. "You, not in London? I can't imagine it."

"I've grown tired of big, anonymous cities," Sherlock said solemnly, staring out at the graveyard. 

"What about The Work? You know you'll never find anything half as exciting out here."

"I know," Sherlock said. "I'm thinking of retiring."

"At the age of thirty-two?" John asked with a smile. "What on earth would you do with yourself for the next fifty, sixty years?"

"I'd find something," Sherlock answered with a shrug, and John realised that he was serious - Sherlock Holmes was actually considering giving up his detective work. It was almost more of a shock than him coming back from the dead. It made John wonder once again how well he knew the man in front of him anymore.

They were both startled by the arrival of a third person.

"Sorry to interrupt, John," Lisa said apologetically, glancing curiously at Sherlock. "It's just that the food's going to be ready sooner than I planned so I thought I'd better come get you."

"Right, yeah," John said, half-turning towards her before glancing back at Sherlock. "Lisa, err, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I knew I recognised you," she said with a smile, shaking Sherlock's hand. "I thought you were dead?"

John and Sherlock both gave her a look of surprise and she laughed. "Sorry. It's just, my husband was a bit obsessed with your adventures. He used to read about all your cases in the papers. And then, when we heard..."

Lisa glanced at John and John found himself wondering why neither Lisa nor Chris had ever said anything to him, but brushed the thought away as Lisa spoke up again.

"Well, anyway, you're welcome to come to lunch as well, if you'd like. There's more than enough for one more and Chris would kill me if he knew I'd met the famous Sherlock Holmes and didn't invite him back."

Sherlock spared a glance at John, his hesitance all too clear.

"Unless you're busy of course," Lisa continued. "It's not a problem, I just know Chris would love to meet you."

John wasn't sure what finally did it, but Sherlock eventually smiled ever so slightly and agreed to come, watching John intently even as he did so. John gave his own smile in return and Lisa gestured for them to follow her.

****

Chris was just as excited as Lisa had predicted and John was a little surprised to see the usually taciturn man so lively. After echoing Lisa's surprise at Sherlock being alive, he launched into an animated conversation about some of Sherlock's most famous cases. Even more to John's surprise, the conversation quickly turned to methodology, and when Chris started discussing the comparison of tobacco ash on Sherlock's website, John could only smile bemusedly. Sherlock was only too happy to talk about that particular experiment at length and John watched him with a smile as he opened up, all reticence gone in the face of excitement about The Work. And Sherlock really thought he was ready to retire.

"Could you give me a hand please, John?" Lisa called, shocking him out of his daze. "Looks like those two are a bit busy."

John smiled fondly and followed her back into the kitchen. She was busy putting the food into serving dishes and pointed John in the direction of the cutlery and condiments. As John laid the table, he could hear a constant murmur of voices next door, and when he returned to Lisa, he leaned against the worktop, watching her.

"How long have you known?" he asked quietly, and she paused to look at him.

"Honestly? Almost as long as you've been living here. Chris recognised the name, of course, and then when he dug out the old clippings, he found a picture."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Wasn't our place to ask and we didn't want to upset you," Lisa explained softly. "You were obviously grieving." She turned to him fully, frowning. "Although I suppose that was all an act?"

"No, it wasn't an act," John said quietly.

"Oh. So how long have you known that he was alive?"

"About four days."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her expression softening. "Oh, John. I'm sorry. If I'd known-"

"No, it's fine, really. It's nice to see him being himself again," John said, nodding to the living room, where the constant hum of two low voices continued. 

"You must be over the moon to have him back."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, turning back to her as he struggled for an answer. Luckily, he was saved by the sudden ringing of the oven timer, and Lisa was soon busy carving up the roast and shouting through to the next room to let them know lunch was ready. Chris and Sherlock were still deep in conversation even as they sat down at the table, and John and Lisa shared a look of amusement as they took their own seats.

"Okay, so tell me how you figured out it was the Botox injections," Chris was saying, watching Sherlock in fascination as he filled his plate almost absentmindedly. Sherlock glanced at John and smiled slightly.

"That, I can't take the credit for. It was all John."

"Me?" John echoed, not sure what case they were discussing now.

"Yes," Sherlock said, turning back to Chris. "I remember asking John what he knew of botulinum toxin from his medical days, and that's what he came up with."

John remembered the case all too well now - the puzzles that had Sherlock so excited, the bomber that turned out to be Moriarty, and that final confrontation at the pool which had led to their first kiss. He didn't know what his expression was doing, but he blinked out of the memory to find Lisa watching him with a sympathetic look.

"You used to be a doctor?" she asked him, glancing over at the other two, who hadn't even noticed the quiet, still wrapped up in their conversation.

"I was training to be one, once upon a time," John explained with a tight smile. 

"I can't imagine you as a doctor."

"No, neither could I," he replied, relaxing once more. "I think the Church was a much better choice."

Lisa smiled and John thanked her with a look, before they both turned their attention back to Chris and Sherlock, who were now discussing blood spatter patterns, of all things.

"Really, Chris," Lisa chided playfully. "At the dinner table of all places."

Chris turned to smile at his wife, offering an apology, and Sherlock's eyes met John's across the table, holding his gaze for a long time before John forced himself to look away and focus on his plate instead.

****

"I should be getting back," John eventually announced. They had finished eating some time ago, and had been chatting idly since then. "I still need to tidy up the church."

"Well, if you have to," Lisa said regretfully. "It was lovely to see you."

"It was," Chris agreed. "Give our best to Lawrence when you speak to him again."

"I will."

John rose to his feet and a moment later, Sherlock copied him. "I'd best be going too," Sherlock said.

"Where do you live now, Sherlock?" Lisa asked curiously.

"I'm staying at my family home," Sherlock explained. "Just across the Downs."

"I didn't know you were from round here," Chris said with a pleased smile.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied, smoothing a hand awkwardly over his jacket.

"Well, I hope we see you again soon," Chris said, rising to his feet and reaching out to shake Sherlock's hand.

"Definitely," Lisa echoed. "Are you planning on coming to church regularly?"

"I'm not sure yet," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes flicking to John, and then away again.

"Well... You're welcome to pop by anytime," Lisa said, her husband echoing her. Sherlock gave them a small smile, and the couple showed them both to the door.

The door closed behind them and they set off along the path in silence, passing through the gate and crossing the road to the church. They stopped at the entrance to the graveyard, both of them seemingly searching for what to say. 

"You're more than welcome to come again," John said eventually, breaking the silence. "To the Sunday service. Obviously Lawrence will be in charge again when he's back, but he's very good."

"I'll consider it," Sherlock said with a hint of a smile. He looked around awkwardly, his hands in his pockets once again. "And... if I wanted to come again... to see you?"

John swallowed hard, his heart in turmoil, but he forced his eyes to Sherlock's.

"Yes. Fine," he got out in a stilted tone.

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. 

"I'm sure."

"You still want to talk," Sherlock reminded him.

"I do."

Sherlock nodded slowly and a momentary silence fell over them.

"I, err, I do actually have to tidy up," John said, gesturing towards the church.

"Of course. I'll leave you to it," Sherlock said stiffly, his eyes on John's. "Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment longer, looking like he wanted to say something else, but then he turned on his heel and headed for his car as John headed back into the church.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't hear anything from Sherlock for several days, but on Wednesday - a week to the day since he had reappeared in John's life - he turned up in the early evening. John was a little surprised to see him, but showed him in with a smile anyway. 

Sherlock seemed on edge as he sat down at the table, drumming his fingers on the top, and John sat down opposite, regarding him curiously. Sherlock seemed generally off and it wasn't until John got a good look at his slightly unfocused eyes that he realised why.

"Are you drunk?" John asked with a laugh.

"No," Sherlock protested, but as John held his gaze, he let out a sigh. "Maybe a bit."

"Why?"

"I thought it might help. Dutch courage and all that."

"Am I really that scary?" John asked, smiling widely. Sherlock gave him only a solemn look in reply and John couldn't help laughing. "You ridiculous man."

Sherlock looked slightly put out, but then he seemed to shake it off, meeting John's gaze. "You still have questions."

John let out a surprised huff. "You got drunk so you could talk to me?"

"I'm not drunk."

"Course not. Look, I never meant for this to become... an obligation."

"Didn't you?" Sherlock countered.

"No," John said, then added after a beat: "Not purposefully."

Sherlock hummed and they shared a smile. John leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face before meeting Sherlock's serious gaze once more. "Am I going to need a drink to hear this?"

"That depends on your fortitude. I don't have any desire to repeat this, though, so don't get so drunk you can't remember anything."

John laughed and rose to his feet to fetch the scotch and two tumblers. He beckoned to Sherlock to follow him as he made his way into the rarely-used living room and sat down on the large, comfortable sofa. He placed the bottle and glasses down on the coffee table in front of them and poured two generous shots. He handed Sherlock one glass as he sat down at John's side, and took the other for himself.

"Bottoms up," he murmured, before swallowing his drink in one go. Once he was done, he settled back into the cushions, watching as Sherlock took small sips of his own.

Eventually, Sherlock lowered the tumbler to his lap, his eyes fixed on it. "Where shall I start?" he asked in a rough voice.

"Anywhere. At the beginning, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded, but it was several long moments before he finally took a deep breath and began to speak.

"You already know what happened with Moriarty. When I... when I woke up and Mycroft told me he was dead, I knew it wasn't over. Not as easily as that. It was just the start."

John closed his eyes briefly, his hands clasped tightly together. This was not going to be easy for either of them.

****

Only a little while later, John found himself pouring another drink as Sherlock told him about the assassin he had killed in Vienna - the first of many.

"I know the thought is abhorrent to you," Sherlock said quietly, giving John a sideways glance. "But I had no choice. If I'd let him leave that room, he would have come back to finish the job."

Sherlock pressed his hand absentmindedly to his thigh as he spoke and John couldn't help wondering what scars the knife fight Sherlock had just been recounting had left behind. 

"I didn't enjoy it," Sherlock continued. "But it... it got easier after that."

John took a large mouthful of scotch, letting it burn its way down his throat as he stared helplessly at the ceiling. He didn't dare look at Sherlock, afraid that his reactions might stop him talking.

"After Vienna, I went to the Balkans," Sherlock continued. "I... I don't know what it was like when you were there, but I doubt it's much better now. People still kill each other for the silliest reasons." Sherlock paused, and gave a small, sad smile. "I suppose it's the same all over the world actually. It's... incredibly disheartening sometimes."

Sherlock stared at his glass, swirling the amber liquid round inside it before taking another small sip. He swallowed and then his expression darkened and John felt his stomach churn unpleasantly as Sherlock spoke up again.

"I was kidnapped in Macedonia."

John had to clench his hands into tight fists to stop him reaching out for Sherlock as he recounted his treatment at the hands of his kidnappers. They had broken three of his fingers, one by one, in an attempt to get information about his next move, and then another two to try to scare him enough to give up. John couldn't summon an ounce of pity for the men - hired thugs, of course - when Sherlock described his escape, which resulted in him killing two of them and severely injuring the other three.

After that, Sherlock had fled through Greece to Turkey, and his journey continued eastwards from there, growing more and more dangerous; after the events in Europe, there had been even more people on his trail. Through it all, John was struck by the fact that the network Moriarty had headed was still thriving long after his death - and probably still would be, if not for Sherlock. He finally began to realise just what Sherlock had gone up against, and why he had been committed to doing it, to such an extent that he was ready to abandon everything he knew, everyone he loved. 

The stories went on and on, and their glasses were refilled and emptied several times. There were some things that made John shudder internally - fights, mostly, but far more dangerous ones than those he had witnessed in London - and some stories that made him feel sick to the stomach - murder at Sherlock's hands, and on several occasions, torture. The story of how Sherlock had half-drowned a man to get a name had, in particular, turned his stomach, and he had a feeling Sherlock knew it, judging by his sidelong glances. John struggled at this and a number of other points not to react too visibly, especially to the violence committed by Sherlock himself; he was still afraid it would stop Sherlock in his flow. 

John couldn't help noticing that it seemed to be getting progressively easier for Sherlock to share the more he went on - he was less uncertain, his words coming more easily, only pausing at particularly grizzly points. John wasn't sure whether it was a result of the alcohol, or John's continued silence, but he certainly wasn't going to comment on it. It even seemed to be a little therapeutic, judging by the way Sherlock's shoulders got less and less tense, and John wasn't going to hinder that by any means. In the end, they both needed this to be out in the open, so they could move forward. 

****

By the time Sherlock got towards the end of his story, it was getting late and they were both showing signs of fatigue, although the alcohol probably hadn't helped in that regard. John wiped his eyes as inconspicuously as he could and tried to hide his yawns, but he knew it was probably still obvious to Sherlock, even if he didn't say. Sherlock himself was slouched right down on the sofa, his eyes heavy-lidded as he stumbled slightly over his words.

"Then... Finally, there was only one of them - one more left... Sebastian Moran."

"Moran?" John echoed, perking up a little at the familiar name. 

"You've heard of him?"

"He was in the paper just the other week. He'd been arrested by Interpol after years on the run and- That was you, wasn't it?"

"Moran was Moriarty's right-hand man. He was better than all the rest put together. Clever. Dangerous."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, apparently lost in memory, and opened them again slowly.

"He almost killed me," Sherlock said quietly. "I was tired and I was already thinking about coming home. He took advantage of that. Stupid of me, really."

For the first time that evening, John couldn't resist the urge to reach out for Sherlock, and the younger man started as John wrapped his hand around his wrist. "You forget you're human sometimes," John said softly. "Actually, a lot of the time."

"Sometimes I have to," Sherlock replied just as quietly. "To do the things I need to do. Things that... that humans won't do."

John gave Sherlock's arm a squeeze as he held Sherlock's gaze. "You're not a monster."

Sherlock's expression faltered, his eyes shining wetly in the split second before he turned his face to the side.

"Do you hear me?" John said, giving Sherlock a little shake. "You're not."

Sherlock blinked several times, looking almost overwhelmed with emotion. It was enough to break the last chains of John's control and he reached out for Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock let out a choked noise and buried his face against John's neck, his hands fisted in the fabric of John's jumper. Sherlock's left hand was trembling against his back and John pressed a hand to Sherlock's dark curls, breathing shakily against his temple.

"I have never doubted you for a single second," John whispered. "Even when I was so angry I wanted to hurt you."

Sherlock made a noise that was part laugh, part sob, and John held him even tighter. 

"Thank you," John said. "For telling me."

"You should think so much less of me" Sherlock said tightly, his breath warm against John's neck.

"Never."

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. A moment passed, and then he leaned in to press his lips to John's. John's breath hitched with the first brush of their lips, and then he was pressing in close, burying both hands in Sherlock's hair, and kissing him back helplessly. 

****

It was a sloppy, unrefined kiss, both of them too desperate, Sherlock almost whining against John's mouth. John was lost, lost in the taste of him and the way they fit so well even after all this time, and when Sherlock pressed closer, John let out a helpless moan. He freed one hand from Sherlock's hair to skim down his side and slide under his jacket, pressing against the warmth of Sherlock's skin through his shirt. It had been too long, too long without this, and even as he thought it, John faltered.

John forced himself away from Sherlock with effort, panting heavily, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to hold him at a distance.

"I can't do this," he said brokenly. "It- it's too soon."

Sherlock closed his eyes as a pained look crossed his expression. "I'm sorry," he got out. "I shouldn't have."

"I just... I need time still."

"I know," Sherlock said, before berating himself angrily: "Stupid, stupid."

"No," John insisted, giving Sherlock's shoulders a squeeze as he shook his head. "Not stupid. Human, remember?"

Sherlock gave him a halfhearted smile and John couldn't help leaning in to press his lips against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock grabbed his arms desperately, the press of his fingers against John's skin almost enough to hurt. 

"I love you," Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes, dipping to press his forehead against Sherlock's.

"I love you too," he whispered painfully, before forcing himself away with a regretful sigh.

Sherlock straightened a moment later, smoothing a hand over his clothes, his face a carefully-poised mask. "I should go."

"You shouldn't drive," John reminded him. "You'd best stay here."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I got a lift here, I'll get the driver to come back and pick me up," he said, already pulling his phone out. 

"You don't have to," John said weakly, and Sherlock raised his head to meet John's gaze.

"I don't want to stay here if I'm not staying with you," Sherlock said honestly, before ducking his head to finish typing his message. "I think we might both need the space right now."

John nodded helplessly, even though Sherlock couldn't see him, and when Sherlock got to his feet a moment later, John followed.

Sherlock crossed the room purposefully, but paused at the door, looking down at John with an unfathomable expression. "I want to see you again."

"Of course," John said a little breathlessly. "Come for dinner tomorrow. Or Friday. Whenever."

"Friday," Sherlock decided with a slight nod. He glanced out into the darkness and turned back to John. "I have to go."

Sherlock dipped his head to press a chaste kiss to John's lips, and lingered just a bit too long for it to be really chaste when John leaned into him, one hand locked around his forearm. Sherlock's hand settled on his hip for a moment, and then he stepped away entirely and opened the door.

"Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight."

Sherlock hesitated for just a second, but then seemed to force himself into action, leaving the house and pulling the door shut behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

Morning brought with it the first fleeting twinges of regret, but before John could even begin to agonise over his relationship with Sherlock, he received the news he had been expecting and dreading at the same time: Lawrence's brother had passed away. It had been a short conversation, Lawrence obviously upset but, as usual, worrying more about being an inconvenience. John had reassured him once again that he could cope just fine, and Lawrence had gone off to help his sister-in-law with all the arrangements that needed to be made.

John was feeling out of sorts himself after the news. He didn't know George, had never met him, but it was more the effect it would have - was having - on Lawrence that upset him; Lawrence had always spoken warmly of his elder brother, and the nature of his illness and eventual death was sure to affect him greatly. For now there was nothing John could do, though, and there wouldn't be until Lawrence returned.

It was a warm, sunny day and John had already planned to work on the graveyard that morning. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction from thoughts of Sherlock, and the tangled mess things were becoming, as well as Lawrence's bad news. 

He was weeding around the outer wall of the graveyard when a familiar voice called out.

"Hello!"

John looked up and smiled as Lisa approached, a woven shopping bag hooked over each arm. "Hello."

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" she said, leaning against the wall as John rose to his feet.

"It is."

"You look like you're hard at work."

"Constantly fighting the weeds," John said with a crooked smile.

"Oh, I know the feeling. Our rockery is almost overrun."

There was a moment of easy silence, but then Lisa frowned slightly.

"John, I hope we didn't cause you any... trouble on Sunday," she said, biting her lip.

"Trouble?" John echoed in confusion.

"I honestly wouldn't have invited Sherlock if I thought things might be awkward."

"It's fine," John reassured her. "I didn't mind. Honestly."

"I couldn't help noticing that things were maybe a little tense though?" she got out uncertainly.

John sighed and brushed the back of his wrist over his sweaty forehead. "You said you'd read everything in the papers about Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"So you saw the articles towards the end, the ones that talked about us being... a couple?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "Obviously, you never can believe the papers half the time and-"

"It was true," John said, cutting her off with a small smile. "We were a couple."

"Ah."

"I mean, it doesn't really change the situation," John explained. "It just makes it a whole lot more..." He trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Fraught?" Lisa suggested and John let out a huff of laughter. 

"Yeah, something like that."

"He's a very nice man," Lisa said after a short pause, watching him intently.

"He was very much on his best behaviour on Sunday," John replied, laughing, and Lisa smiled softly.

"I can't even imagine what you're going through. It must be incredibly..."

"Confusing? Bewildering? Infuriating?" John suggested with a grin. "Welcome to life with Sherlock Holmes."

"You obviously still care about him a lot."

"I do," John admitted. "It makes things even more difficult."

Lisa smiled and reached out to squeeze his arm. "That's love for you."

John huffed in amusement and nodded. "Tell me about it."

"Well, if you sort things out, tell Sherlock our invitation still stands. Chris hasn't stopped going on about him since Sunday. It's driving me scatty," Lisa exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

"I'll tell him," John said with a laugh. "If only to put you out of your misery."

Lisa smiled and shifted from her position on the wall. "Anyway, I'd better get in and put this lot away. Let you get on."

"Do you need a hand?"

"No, it's fine. Nothing heavy."

Lisa left and John watched her across the road, before kneeling and returning to his work.

****

After lunch, John made the short trip to Withyham to visit Father Benjamin - although his thoughts were fixed on the occupant of a house not too far away. Father Benjamin was an elderly priest and he had moved to the relatively quiet parish shortly after John and Lawrence had moved to Haywards Heath. Given the proximity of the two parishes, they saw each other fairly regularly, and John had assisted the elder priest on a number of occasions, usually when his bad hip was playing up.

"Awful news, even if we have been waiting for it," Father Benjamin said once John had settled down with a cup of tea and told him the news about Lawrence's brother. "Poor Lawrence."

"I know," John said sadly, sipping his tea slowly, trying hard to fight distraction. It didn't help that he was sitting in the very armchair where a sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had broken down in tears on his shoulder.

"I'm assuming Lawrence won't be back this week?"

"No. Looks like I might be needing your help again."

"It's not a problem," Benjamin said with a slightly grim smile. "Makes me feel useful."

They fell silent, drinking their tea slowly.

"You're looking a bit tired, John," Benjamin remarked after a while. "I hope you're not running yourself ragged while Lawrence is away."

"I'm fine," John assured him with a smile. "Just haven't been sleeping very well."

"Oh, I know, this heat! I can't stand it. I'm thoroughly looking forward to autumn arriving any day now."

John laughed, and decided not to correct the older man's assumption. "I hear it's going to rain next week. Probably won't stop once it gets going."

"Oh dear, my hip'll start playing up again."

"Did you try those soothers the doctor recommended?" 

Benjamin just scoffed and John smiled into his tea as he took another sip. They fell into a companionable silence as they finished their tea.

"I'd better be off," John eventually said. "I said I'd try to pop by the school this afternoon."

"Take it easy now," Father Benjamin said concernedly.

"I will, don't worry," John said, rising quickly to his feet and taking both of their cups through to the kitchen. He returned to the living room, where Father Benjamin was still leveraging himself out of the chair.

"I'll see you first thing on Sunday?"

"Yes, yes."

They shook hands and Benjamin sent him on his way with a clap on the shoulder.

****

John left the house and followed the path along past the graveyard, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the dark headstone sitting upon what he now knew to be an empty grave. He was soon distracted, though, when he spotted a figure lingering a bit further along the path. Mycroft bloody Holmes. John sighed and approached him quickly, wanting to get the meeting over and done with as quickly as possible.

"Do you have nothing better to do with your time than follow me?" John got out in lieu of a greeting, folding his arms across his chest as he drew level with the elder Holmes. 

"I was in the neighbourhood," Mycroft simpered. "On my way to see my brother, actually."

"And you just happened to know I was here?"

"Would you like to join me?" Mycroft asked, ignoring John's question.

"I'm busy."

"I thought you might be persuaded to take a short break to visit my brother."

"Look," John said sharply, "If this is you trying to help, stop it. What happens between me and Sherlock is none of your business."

Mycroft frowned ever so slightly, but a moment later the polite mask was back.

"Things going well then? Are we to expect a full reconciliation?"

John regarded the eldest Holmes for a moment, and then let out a laugh. "I see. You can't get anything out of Sherlock so you thought you'd try me instead." John shook his head and smiled widely. "S'not going to happen. Now I hope you take this in the nicest way possible, Mycroft, but bugger off." 

Mycroft scowled in a manner all too reminiscent of his brother, but bowed his acquiescence.

"Very well. Feel free to use the car," he added, gesturing to the black car idling behind them. "Take it as compensation for your valuable time."

John raised an eyebrow and watched in slight bewilderment as Mycroft turned and walked away. The car didn't move and John let out a heavy sigh, before just giving in and climbing into the back. It beat getting the bus, in any case.

****

John was just washing up his dinner plate later that evening when the phone rang. Expecting it to be Lawrence, he rushed to dry his hands and answer it. A deeper, but no less familiar voice answered his rather breathless greeting.

"Sherlock," he said warmly.

"I hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all," John said, smiling. It really shouldn't have made him so ridiculously pleased to hear Sherlock's voice. There was a slight pause, and then John spoke up.

"Your brother's been stalking me again."

Sherlock gave a scoff of disgust. "Insufferable git."

"Yeah."

"What did he want?"

"Intelligence gathering as usual."

Sherlock scoffed again and John could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied it. 

"I certainly didn't miss your brother's delightful company the last few years," John said with a grin.

"Me neither."

"You didn't speak to him then?" John asked in surprise. Sherlock hadn't said, but John had assumed he had been in regular contact with Mycroft.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Not once he'd got me out of the country."

"Oh," John breathed. It made Sherlock's mission seem all the more lonely.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked after a short pause. "You don't sound yourself today."

"Don't I?" John asked. "No, I'm fine. I just... Lawrence's brother passed away last night."

"Ah. Did you know him well?"

"Never met him, but that doesn't mean I can't be sad."

"No," Sherlock said a little uncertainly, and John couldn't help smiling. He still forgot from time to time how baffling Sherlock sometimes found emotions to be.

"We're still on for dinner?" John asked, changing the subject.

"Are we?" Sherlock countered.

"Yes," John said softly. 

"John, there's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"You know I don't like fish," Sherlock said solemnly, although John could hear the faint hint of amusement in his voice. 

John laughed. "Tough. Be a good Catholic for once in your life."

"I was a very good Catholic for several years," Sherlock protested, his voice rich with laughter.

"Doesn't count when you're under twelve and your mother forces you."

"Doesn't it? Shame," Sherlock joked.

John smiled brightly, and they talked idly for a while longer, until John reluctantly had to say goodbye.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow," Sherlock echoed and John hung up with a ridiculous smile on his face.

****

Dinner was passed in much the same way as their phone conversation the night before, with jokes and smiles and the odd moment of seriousness and even, John had to admit in hindsight, a great deal of flirting. It was easy and it was pleasant, and it made it very simple to forget that there was a reason for the underlying tension.

When the meal was done and they had lingered for a long time over coffee, Sherlock finally - reluctantly - made to leave. At the door they shared another not-quite-chaste kiss and when Sherlock disappeared into the night, John had that ridiculous grin plastered across his face once more.

It was like falling in love all over again, his mind and body infatuated once more with the brilliance and beauty of Sherlock Holmes. It was only his heart - his battered and bruised heart - that held him back; he didn't know if he could bear to entrust it to Sherlock again, to make himself vulnerable as he had once done without a second thought. His heart was a bitter, angry old fool but it ruled his every move - held Sherlock at arm's length and stopped John from hurtling head first back into a life with Sherlock as the centre of his universe. 

With head and heart in conflict, the way forward was as unclear as ever and, after John had gone through his usual evening prayers for all those close to him, he found himself praying extra hard for a guiding light to steer him on the right path. Until then, he would muddle along blindly, constantly taking one uncertain step forward and another two backwards, in a helpless battle of attrition with no end in sight.


	7. Chapter 7

Lawrence returned on Thursday afternoon, looking tired and a little shaky, but still smiling warmly when John met him at the train station. 

"It's good to have you back," John said, clasping a hand over their joined ones.

"I'm glad to be home," Lawrence admitted with a weary smile.

"Well, let's get you settled, and then you can sit down, put your feet up, and have a nice cup of tea."

"That sounds perfect," Lawrence said with a slight sigh.

They returned home and in no time Lawrence was installed in an armchair with a cup of tea. 

"I hope you don't mind," John started. "But I decided not to subject you to anything I could cook tonight. Chris and Lisa invited us over and it seemed like a much better option. Obviously, if you'd rather stay at home..."

"No," Lawrence said. "I think I'd quite like to be sociable tonight."

"Great. Well, you can still relax for a few hours. I told them we'd be over at about five."

Lawrence smiled and took a sip of his drink, and John hesitated in the doorway.

"I, err, you should probably know that Sherlock's been invited too."

Lawrence looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. "I see."

"Apparently Chris is a big fan," John said somewhat awkwardly. "Followed all the stories in the paper and everything."

"Ah. It finally came out then? I'm glad."

"You knew?" John asked, and then realised perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised.

"It came up just the once," Lawrence explained. "I confirmed that you were that John Watson, and that Sherlock was dead. Nothing more."

"Ah."

"Anyway, getting back to the more important point, how is Sherlock?" Lawrence asked, shooting him a piercing look that made John a little uncomfortable when he thought of the several not-quite-chaste kisses and the several not-quite-dates they had shared in the last few days.

"He's well," John said. "Seems the same as ever, really."

"Well, I look forward to seeing him."

"You do?" 

"Of course," Lawrence said. "I want to see the miracle for myself."

"Not really a miracle," John reminded him.

"It's a miracle you haven't killed him," Lawrence joked and John couldn't help laughing. 

"It was a close thing."

Lawrence laughed and settled down with his drink as John left him to go and sort out the sacristy, the tidying of which had been somewhat neglected in Lawrence's absence.

****

Just before five, there was a knock at the door and John leapt up to get it, smiling softly when he opened it to reveal Sherlock on the other side. He showed Sherlock in and Lawrence rose to greet him.

"Sherlock," Lawrence said, stepping forward to shake his hand enthusiastically.

"Father Lawrence."

"It's good to see you. You look well."

"I- Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied, glancing at John - obviously a little surprised by Lawrence's friendly greeting. After a short pause, he cleared his throat and added: "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Oh, thank you," Lawrence said, finally releasing Sherlock's hand. "Shall we get going then?" 

As they left the house, John gave Sherlock a warm smile, just reaching out to brush his arm. Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, but then looked back ahead to where Lawrence was already at the gate. The three of them crossed the road to Lisa and Chris' house, and were greeted with the couple's usual friendliness.

"Dinner's almost ready," Lisa said. "Shall we sit down at the table?"

They went through to the dining room, Sherlock and Chris already deep in conversation about some experiment or another. John smiled fondly as he took the seat next to Sherlock and shared a look with Lawrence as he settled on John's other side.

The food was as good as ever, the company even better, and John was glad to see Lawrence in fairly high spirits. He was still quieter than usual, and at times seemed pensive, but he chatted quite happily with Lisa and John and laughed and joked along with them. It was a relief to John to see him coping well despite his grief; John wasn't sure he had been anywhere near as skillful at dealing with his own. 

He sent a sidelong glance at Sherlock, who was still talking to Chris. He was in his element, eyes bright, hands gesturing smoothly, a smile curving his full lips.

"Another piece of garlic bread, John?" 

John started somewhat guiltily and turned back to Lawrence, shaking his head. "No, thanks."

Lawrence gave him a knowing look and John felt himself blush, but Lisa saved him a moment later by asking a question about the Bishop's rumoured ill-health.

Dinner seemed to fly by and all too soon, it was time to go. John, Lawrence and Sherlock left together but when Sherlock lingered at the church gate, Lawrence called out a cheery 'goodnight' and left the two of them alone as he went into the house.

Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought as he watched Lawrence go, but when John placed a hand on his arm he blinked out of his daze with a slight frown.

"He's angry with me."

"What? Lawrence?" John got out in confusion.

"Yes. For what I did to you."

"I don't think so, Sherlock," John said with a smile. "You're just being paranoid."

"It's perfectly rational," Sherlock said, his eyes locked on John's. "He's your friend and he's been by your side for the last three years. He knows how hurt you were... because of me."

John let out a shaky breath and tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm.

"Yeah, he does know," he said after a pause. "He knows everything I've been through. But he's not exactly the type to hold a grudge. At the end of the day, it's between us, you and me. And Lawrence knows that."

Sherlock frowned, but then something seemed to soften in his expression and he wrapped his hand around John's wrist.

"I know it's up to you to forgive me... or not. And you are the only person whose opinion I care about."

John leaned unconsciously closer, his heart hammering at Sherlock's words. "What about Mrs. Hudson?" he whispered.

"Don't care."

"Lestrade."

"Even less."

John let out a huff of laughter, which was caught by Sherlock's lips as he pressed in close. John leaned into the kiss, his hand trailing up Sherlock's arm to his neck, but only a few seconds later, he forced himself away. Sherlock let out an almost inaudible sigh, but stepped away, his expression veiled when he met John's gaze.

"I should go."

John swallowed and nodded reluctantly. "I don't know if I'll be able to see you before Sunday. If you're coming to the service...?"

"I'm coming."

"Still tempting God's wrath?" John teased lightly - Sherlock had been at the previous weekend service as well. Sherlock just smiled softly and leaned in to brush a brief kiss over John's lips, before moving away again.

"I'll see you on Sunday."

"Yes."

Sherlock turned away and made his way over to where his car was parked, pausing to look back at John before getting in and driving away. John let out a long sigh, rubbed his hand over his face, and retreated into the house.

****

John made tea for Lawrence and himself, and sat down at the kitchen table opposite his friend, sliding his mug across to him. Lawrence took it with a quiet 'thanks' and they sat in silence for a while, both sipping now and then at their drinks.

"John," Lawrence said after some time, and John raised his eyes to his friend. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but what are you doing with Sherlock?"

"Sorry?" John got out, a little shocked.

"You're clearly still in love with him, and he obviously feels the same way. I know he hurt you, but I can't understand why you're still... tiptoeing around each other."

John let out a faintly pained groan. "I... I don't know. It's complicated."

"Let me make it simpler," Lawrence said softly. "You've been a shadow of yourself for the last three years and it's been awful to see. Now Sherlock's back - and I know it's not that straightforward - but you're alive again."

"I... I don't..."

"If the last few weeks have taught me anything," Lawrence said, "It's that life is too short. Forgive him, John, and put both of you out of your misery."

"I honestly didn't expect you to say that," John finally got out.

"I want you to be happy," Lawrence replied. "He makes you happy. In my mind, that's all there is to it."

"I'm not sure I even know how..."

"Yes, you do."

John huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "I have missed your common sense the last week or so."

Lawrence smiled softly. "I just can't bear to see you fighting against what you really want."

John sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I do want him," he admitted. "I want what we had before. But I don't know if it can ever be the same. I don't know if I can trust him again."

"Of course you can," Lawrence said with surprising firmness. "John, what more does the man have to do? He spends time with your friends, he hangs on every word you say, watches every move. He's so afraid of losing you. Do you really need him to do more penance?"

John's mind was reeling; he had been so blind to the meaning behind it all - the visits, Sherlock's best behaviour, his attendance at Church. Sherlock was doing penance for his wrongs, waiting - just as he'd said not half an hour ago - for John to decide whether to forgive him or not.

"He always said I was rubbish at observation. I didn't even realise," John eventually said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I know. Perhaps you were still preoccupied?" Lawrence suggested quietly. "Still caught up in your own hurt and anger?"

"Yeah," John breathed. "God, I've been an idiot." John met Lawrence's sympathetic gaze. "What would I do without you?"

"I'm sure you'd muddle along," Lawrence replied with a small smile and John shook his head in disbelief.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," John announced. "I've got a lot to think about."

"Of course."

John rose to his feet. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome. Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight."

John climbed the stairs to his room and slumped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Had he really been so stupid, so blind to what Sherlock had been saying with every little thing he'd done? He'd always prided himself on his ability to read Sherlock where others failed, but it looked like this time he was just as shortsighted as everyone else. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, Lady T. This whole thing would have been impossible without her.

Sunday came around, and saw Lawrence returned to his rightful place leading the service. John was more than happy to take a back seat and assist, which also left him free at times to watch the congregation. The faces of those in communion with God had always fascinated him, but there was only one face that held his attention today. He had thought of Sherlock almost obsessively since his conversation with Lawrence and was admittedly distracted. It was a relief to have Lawrence back, really, because John knew he was mostly useless at the moment.

The service ended and John joined Lawrence at the church door to talk to their parishioners. He smiled and he shook hands and he chatted idly - all on autopilot. When the last person had bid them farewell, Lawrence gave him a knowing smile and nodded out towards the graveyard. John looked round to find Sherlock hovering a little way off, his piercing gaze fixed on John.

"I'll leave you to it," Lawrence said softly, giving John's elbow a squeeze before disappearing into the church.

John swallowed and moved to join Sherlock, oddly nervous. 

"What did you think of Lawrence's service then?" John asked.

"It wasn't completely awful," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Good. Did you... D'you want to come in for tea?"

"Actually, I was thinking you could come to mine."

"It's a bit of a way to go just for tea," John pointed out with a smile.

"It's not. I've moved."

"What? When did this happen?" John asked in surprise.

"Yesterday. I couldn't stand another day in that godforsaken house. I thought it was bad enough when my mother was alive..."

John smiled, a little bewildered. "So, you just moved? Where to?"

"It's a nice place. Decent size. It's got a spare room that I'm planning on turning into a lab."

"Right," John said, recognising deflection when it saw it. "But where is it?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before answering. "A five minute walk from here."

John raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth to speak - and then closed it again with a snap. 

"Well, let's go then," he said when he had recovered from his surprise a moment later. "Show me your new pad."

Sherlock smiled and stepped back, waving John in front of him. "After you."

****

Sherlock's new home was a modest, mid-terraced Victorian house - two up, two down - with gaudy decor to rival even Mrs. Hudson's. It was already filled with boxes of Sherlock's stuff, contents half-unpacked and scattered all over the place.

"It's nice," John pronounced with a smile. He spotted the skull that had sat on the mantelpiece at 221b in a box and went to pick it up. "I wondered what had happened to poor Yorick."

Sherlock snorted in amusement but looked uncertain as his eyes met John's. "Do you like it?"

"It's very you."

John looked around again, and then slid his gaze back to Sherlock.

"Very conveniently located."

Sherlock looked slightly shamefaced and John took a step forward. "Any reason for this particular location?"

Sherlock looked away, fiddling with the edge of a nearby box. "John, I..."

"You're an idiot," John said and Sherlock started, eyes widening in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"You. Are. An. Idiot," John said, taking one step forward with every word until he was toe to toe with Sherlock. "And I love you."

Before Sherlock could say anything more, John was drawing him down into a passionate kiss. Sherlock let out a moan and pressed closer as John wrapped both arms around him and let himself get lost. As soon as Sherlock seemed to realise that John wasn't going to pull away - not this time - he pressed even closer, deepening their kiss as he cradled John's face between his palms. John's hands fisted in Sherlock's jacket, keeping him close, the heat of his body bleeding into John's.

When they finally parted for breath, they were both panting and Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, his breath ghosting over John's mouth.

"John?" he whispered uncertainly.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock recoiled in surprise. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry. I've been stupid."

"You have?" Sherlock got out, and John couldn't help but enjoy Sherlock's confusion.

"Yes," John said with a smile, pressing a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and leaning into him. "I've always wanted this. You. I just... It took me a while to remember how much."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily, but whatever he found in John's expression soon had him smiling widely and dipping his head to kiss him again. John clung to him, laughing into the kiss. Sherlock's hands tracked over his back and neck, grasping at cloth and hair, and suddenly there was an urgency that hadn't been there before.

John drew away with a gasp, looking up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes.

"Maybe you should show me the bedroom," he suggested, one hand curving over Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock swallowed visibly, some of that hesitance back in his expression, but he soon turned and led the way upstairs.

****

Sherlock was still looking a little punch-drunk when they reached the bedroom and he settled awkwardly on the end of the bed, watching as John took in the room. Finished with his perusal, John's eyes drifted back to Sherlock and his heart jumped at the sight of him. He stepped forward and Sherlock tilted his head back just a little to hold John's gaze, revealing the pale skin of his neck in a way that made John breathe a little heavier.

John reached out a hand to trace his fingers over one impossible cheekbone. "Look at you," he whispered. "You've hardly aged. And still as beautiful as ever."

Sherlock leaned into his caress, reaching out to rest one hand on John's hip. "John," he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed.

John bent almost double and caught Sherlock's mouth in a gentle kiss, sliding his hands up Sherlock's arms and then under the edge of his suit jacket, guiding it over his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged it the rest of the way off and then he was pulling John insistently towards him, until John had little choice but to follow him down onto the bed.

Stretched out side by side, John traced a hand down Sherlock's neck, skimming over his collarbone through the thin shirt. Sherlock trembled and reached for him again, drawing him into a hungry kiss. John moaned against him and pressed forward until he was half over Sherlock, before dipping his head to press his tongue to the curve of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock whined and his hands scrambled for John's jumper, tugging at it impatiently. 

"Off," he commanded in a rough voice.

John moved away just far enough to pull his jumper over his head, and then he was leaning in to kiss Sherlock again, his hand going to the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock suddenly went still underneath him and John pulled back in confusion, his brow knitting into a frown when he saw the strained look on Sherlock's face, the way his eyes were screwed shut.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "What is it?"

"Just... Please, keep going," Sherlock said a little desperately. 

"Are you sure? You don't seem to be enjoying it much right now," John said.

"I am," Sherlock said, his eyes flying open to meet John's, before flicking down to where John's hand rested on his half-undone shirt. Suddenly, the reason for his unease became clear.

"I want to see you," John said softly.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock got out, nodding jerkily as he closed his eyes again. "Get on with it."

"Sherlock, if you want me to stop-"

"Please, John!"

"Okay," John whispered soothingly, slowly continuing to unbutton the shirt. "Okay."

Once it was undone, John spread the shirt open across Sherlock's chest - and he couldn't help but pause as he took in the scars revealed underneath. Sherlock wriggled out of the shirt, his eyes still closed, and John let out a gasp as he finally caught sight of the two worst injuries - gunshot wounds - in his left shoulder and just below his ribs on the same side. 

John found his hand hovering over them helplessly. "Do they hurt?"

"Only occasionally," Sherlock got out in a strained voice and when John glanced up, his eyes were open once more, and he was watching John intently. 

They shared a long look and then John leaned in to kiss him again, his lips just skimming over Sherlock's. Sherlock let out a choked noise against his mouth and his hands flew to John's shoulders, holding him close. Sherlock's left hand was trembling, perhaps unsurprisingly, and John drew away gently, sitting back until he could take Sherlock's left hand in his. Sherlock watched on with heavy-lidded eyes as John pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"It shakes when you're emotional?" he whispered.

"Yes, I'd noticed that too." 

"Still not interested in therapy?"

"I don't need a therapist. I've got a priest. Of sorts."

John let out a huff of laughter, and continued to hold Sherlock's gaze as he pressed his mouth to the back of Sherlock's wrist. 

"Come back here," Sherlock said in a low voice, reaching out for him with his free hand. John smiled, releasing Sherlock's fingers and shifting back up to rest on his elbow on the pillows. He paused, holding Sherlock's gaze as he rested a hand just to the side of the scar on his shoulder.

"You don't need to hide from me," he said firmly. "Ever."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to water for just a moment, but then he blinked rapidly and leaned up to capture John's mouth once more. 

It was like a dream - just like the dreams that had tormented John all through the last three years - to have Sherlock underneath him, his skin warm and soft and real under John's hands, his body pressed against the length of John's. John almost didn't know where to start, what to touch first, what to do now that he finally had Sherlock back where he had always belonged.

John broke their kiss with a gasp, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's. "I missed you," he said brokenly, finally letting the floodgates open. "I was so lost without you."

"John," Sherlock got out in a voice thick with emotion, his hands momentarily tightening their grip.

"I didn't want to live without you. Don't want to live without you," John breathed out, catching Sherlock's lips in a hard kiss. Sherlock moaned deep in his throat and then his hands were at the buttons of John's shirt, deft fingers slipping them undone in no time and shoving the shirt off. 

The rest of their clothes soon followed until they were pressed together, skin-to-skin, hands running reverently over heated flesh and grasping at hair, mouths coming together in surges of passion. Despite himself, John had to fight back the tears when he pressed his open mouth to Sherlock's throat and was overwhelmed by the taste and smell of him. Sherlock seemed to realise straight away and he cupped John's face in his hands and drew him back into a gentle kiss. John trembled and sunk into it and, before he could blink, Sherlock had reversed their positions, looking down at John with shining eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but it never came, and then he was leaning down to kiss John again.

When Sherlock trailed soft kisses down John's neck and over his chest, John bucked helplessly into the touch, his body desperate for contact after three years of deprivation. He let out quiet gasps as Sherlock drifted teasingly light touches over his torso, and arched into him as long fingers swept up his thighs. Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's sternum and his eyes flicked upwards, his expression uncertain for just a second. 

"I hate that look," John whispered, reaching down to brush his thumb over Sherlock's temple. "I wish I could make it disappear forever."

John coaxed Sherlock back up his body, letting out a low moan when the erection he had mostly forgotten about slid against Sherlock's belly. For a moment, he could hardly breathe for the wave of want that crashed over him and he closed his eyes with the sensation, moaning again when Sherlock pressed down against him. When John's eyes fluttered reluctantly open again, Sherlock was watching him with pupils blown wide, his mouth parted almost unconsciously as he gave another slow, deliberate thrust. He had never looked more beautiful.

Sherlock paused, searching John's expression for permission, and John nodded jerkily, hands pressed against Sherlock's lower back. "More," John got out breathily. "Just like that."

Sherlock gave him a wolfish smile that made his heart stutter, and then thrust again in one long, drawn-out movement. It was almost too good, the drag of skin against skin and Sherlock and the kind of intimacy that John had been without for far too long. He closed his eyes again and arched into Sherlock's next move, his hands settling in a tight grip on Sherlock's hips as Sherlock pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"God, I missed this," John whispered. 

Sherlock let out a choked noise and suddenly shifted, wrapping a hand around both of them, his head pressed to John's shoulder. "John," he groaned.

"Oh God, yes," John moaned, the increased pressure setting off a cascade of sensation through his body. He twisted his head to capture Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock kissed him back desperately, shifting, sliding and eventually sending them both over the edge with a surprised gasp.

****

John let out a long breath, idly threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock shifted against his shoulder, his breath tickling John's skin.

"I really should be getting back," John said reluctantly. "Lawrence will be wondering where I've got to."

"Stay," Sherlock said, his voice muffled against John. 

"I wish I could but, you know, officially I'm still a deacon. I'm not supposed to be here. It wouldn't look very good."

Sherlock said nothing, but he let out something close to a sigh. "How could I forget?" he whispered. "I won't make you choose. Again."

John laughed and wriggled out from underneath Sherlock's head, forcing Sherlock to turn onto his side. "I've already made my choice," John said, pressing his hand to Sherlock's cheek and leaning in to press a brief kiss to his lips. "I made it the moment I really started thinking about the possibility of us being together again. You will always come first, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked a little dazed but he leaned in for another kiss. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against John's, his eyes closed. "John, I want... everything. With you. I want to spend every single moment with you, for the rest of my life."

"Careful," John teased in a low voice. "That sounded almost like a proposal."

"If I could predict your answer, it would be."

John recoiled in surprise, eyes flying wide open to flick over Sherlock's face. "You... You're serious," he said after a moment.

"Why wouldn't I be? And you just said you didn't want to live without me. Unless that was just the heat of the moment?"

John let out a shaky breath and rolled onto his back, running his hands through his hair.

"I've upset you," Sherlock said.

"No. No, just surprised me."

"I won't mention it again," Sherlock murmured quietly, and John reached out for him, drawing him close once more.

"No, look, I just... We've only been back together ten minutes."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"You wouldn't," John said with a laugh. "It's just that, we need time still. And I've got to figure out leaving the Church and what I'm going to do with myself and- you know, this is the second time, I'm going to start getting a reputation..."

"I understand," Sherlock cut in, leaning in close, his breath on John's lips. "Forget it. Delete it."

"Sherlock-"

"For now," Sherlock insisted and John finally acquiesced with a nod and a slight sigh. 

"I love you," John whispered, cupping the back of Sherlock's neck.

"I love you."

Sherlock finally pressed their lips together and John wrapped both arms around him tightly, losing himself in the moment. It felt like coming home.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who has followed me (and Sherlock and John) through this roller coaster journey. I feel like I've spent most of this year absorbed in this world and I am truly sad to be saying goodbye, but at least John and Sherlock finally got their happy ending! I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have and hopefully I'll see you again soon. Thank you again, you lovely people. yalublyutebya


End file.
